“I hadn’t noticed the moonlight,” said Dan Anderson.  “As to the rest of it, the street of this town has usually been free for a man to think as he pleased.”

“You’re a traitor and a squealer!” cried Barkley.

“You’re a damned cad!” retorted Dan Anderson, calmly.  He stepped close to the other now, although his hands remained in his pockets.  “I dislike to make these remarks to an oiled and curled Assyrian ass,” he went on, smiling, “but under the circumstances, I do; and it goes.”

Porter Barkley, dominant, arrogant, aggressive, for years accustomed to having his own way with men, felt a queer sensation now—­a replica, fourfold intensified, of that he had experienced before the silent audience he had left within.  He was afraid.  Dan Anderson stepped still closer to him, his face lowered, his lips smiling, his eyes looking straight into his own.

“It’s just what I said,” began Barkley, desperately, “I told Constance—­”

The wonder was that Barkley lived, for the resort to weapons was the only remedy known in that land, and Dan Anderson knew the creed, as Barkley should have known it.  His weapon leaped out in his hand as he drew back, his lean body bent in the curve of the fanged rattler about to strike.  He did strike, but not with the point of flame.  The heavy revolver came to a level, but the hooked finger did not press the trigger.  Instead, the cylinder smote Porter Barkley full upon the temple, and he fell like a log.  Dan Anderson checked himself, seeing the utter unconsciousness of the fallen man.  For a moment he looked down upon him, then walked a few steps aside, standing as does the wild stag by its prostrate rival.  The fierce heats of that land, still primitive, now flamed in his soul, gone swiftly and utterly savage.  It was some moments before he thrust the heavy weapon back into its scabbard, and, turning, strode toward the door.

As he entered the crowded room he was recognized, and heard his name called again and again.  The audience had wakened, was alive!  Ellsworth, sitting, alone and anxious, looked up hopefully and beckoned Dan Anderson to his side.  The latter seemed scarce to know him, as he walked to the end of the hall and, without preliminary, began to speak.

“Gentlemen,” said he,—­“boys—­I am glad to answer you.  I have twice been invited to speak at this meeting.  Rather I should say that I am now invited by you.  A moment ago I was commanded, ordered to speak, by a man who seemed to think he was my owner.

“He thought himself my owner by reason of this!” He drew from his pocket the roll of bills which had been untouched since he had received them at Sky Top.  “Here’s my first fee as a lawyer.  It’s a thousand dollars.  I wanted the money.  My business is that of the law.  I am open to employment.  You ought not to blame me—­you shall not blame me.”  He held the money in his hand above his head.